


It's Not the Years, Honey, It's the Mileage

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Birthday, M/M, Missing Scene, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius visits Remus on his thirty-fifth birthday.  Things are a bit awkward at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not the Years, Honey, It's the Mileage

It was not yet dawn when the enormous black dog came trotting up the lane. There was a fine dusting of snow on the pavement and the lemondrop moon, still a week from full, flitted between the chimneys. The dog paid no mind to either of these things, being more concerned with the brown paper bag in its mouth, which was soggy and beginning to tear at one corner.

The bag fell apart before the dog reached the end of the lane and its contents – two hardcover books, a small tin of Earl Grey, and a half-empty box of McVitie's Digestive Biscuits – fell into a puddle of slush.

With a huff that did not sound entirely canine, the dog stopped in its tracks, glanced from side to side, sniffed the air. Satisfied that it was the only living creature on the lane at that hour, the dog huffed again, tossed its head, and transformed into a tall, thin man with long, black hair, eyes the color of the fading night, and an expression of supreme annoyance.

"Bugger," he muttered, and bent to gather his sodden possessions. He wiped them as best he could on his tattered robes as he began to walk very rapidly past the silent houses and shops. By the time he reached the low wooden gate at the end of the lane, he'd managed to transfer most of the slush to his robes, and he'd just noticed the tooth marks in the book covers.

"Bugger," he muttered again, and swung one long leg over the gate.

*

The sun was rising when Sirius reached Remus's small cottage, two-thirds of a mile outside the village. Frosted grass blades sparkled in the champagne light, and the underbellies of the sparse clouds were pink and grey. The air tasted of snow, mud, woodsmoke, and sheep.

Remus's windows were dark, the curtains drawn, so Sirius let himself in. He noted Remus's closed bedroom door, noted the dented metal teapot on the table in the kitchen, the chipped teacups, and set to work.

By the time Remus stumbled into the kitchen, hair disheveled, hands fumbling with the sash of his bathrobe, there were two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, cheddar cheese, and apple slices. The apples were a bit soft and had brown spots on them, but Sirius didn't mind and he suspected that Remus would not either. The books had been wrapped in a dishrag and stashed in the cupboard above the sink.

"Hullo," said Sirius cheerfully. "You're thirty-five."

Remus blinked at him. "Don't talk to me like that, it's too early for news like that," he mumbled, and, turning, staggered into the bathroom.

Sirius waited patiently. "I'll be thirty-five soon enough," he offered when Remus re-emerged a few minutes later, looking more awake.

"You don't just show up in people's pantries announcing that they're thirty-five," Remus said, taking a seat and the proffered teacup. "It's bad manners."

Sirius looked innocent. "Manners? And those would be...?"

Remus spooned sugar into his tea. "I was going to say 'Something you've forgotten', but how can you forget something you've never had to begin with?"

Sirius put his elbows on the table and propped his chin up on his knuckles. "Ha," he said. He was tired, having spent most of the night traveling, and not much in the mood for banter.

But then Remus tilted his head and smiled at him over the rim of his teacup, that slow smile that had always put Sirius in mind of warm, faded flannel, and he felt the dawn break inside him.

"Anyway," Sirius said, the corners of his mouth creeping upward into a smile as well, "anyway, happy birthday, Moony."

"I'm surprised you remembered," said Remus. "All these years."

Sirius shrugged. "I remembered that there was something important about March and I spent some time thinking about it. The only things that came to me were the first of spring and Moony's birthday. I did some more thinking. There's not much else to do in a cave. And I remembered your birthday is today. So I thought it only fitting that I come here and bother you just a little. Am I bothering you, Remus?"

"No," said Remus, his smile brightening his eyes.

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little."

"Oh. Well, then. I tried."

Remus sipped his tea. Sirius watched him, watched the morning light sharpen the lines of his face and each grey strand of hair. It was still strange, even after all these months, to think of Remus as old. _Older_ , Sirius corrected himself. Thirty-five was quite young for wizards, though perhaps – he thought with a pang – not for werewolves.

He found himself studying Remus's long, pale fingers as they curled around the handle of his teacup. They looked like driftwood, he decided after some deep consideration. Worn smooth and white by the rough pounding of the years. Remus's fingernails were like seashells. He wondered if he would hear the ocean if Remus touched him. He had a sudden strong desire to lick Remus's fingertips.

"I traveled all night," Sirius said quickly.

Remus looked up from his teacup. "I'm still looking for a new wand for you. I've got a lead, I think. It would be a used wand, but still one of Ollivander's. Dragon heartstring, like your old one, though probably not the same species of dragon."

"Oh," said Sirius, momentarily confused. Then he shook his head.

"No, that wasn't a complaint – though it'll be nice having a wand again." That was an understatement, and Remus must have known it. Even after thirteen years Sirius's fingers twitched to hold a wand. He felt all the spells he'd ever learned bubbling inside him, trapped inside him. He felt as though a part of him had been amputated.

"No," he said again, when he realized that Remus was waiting for him to elaborate. "I mean. That was a preface. A justification, if you will, for what I'm about to say."

Remus raised an eyebrow, and Sirius said, feeling as though he were floundering, "I'm _knackered_. And you've still got pretty hands. Really. _Pretty_ hands."

Remus's eyebrows drew together slightly, and he turned from Sirius to study the hand that wasn't holding his teacup. Sirius studied it too, and remembered what it had been like to be _touched_ by those hands.

He _had_ heard the ocean. Only it hadn't been the ocean, it had been his own blood roaring through him when Remus cupped him, and mapped his flesh, and probed him with those long fingers – like he'd been looking for something, a hidden latch or a spring that might open Sirius to him completely.

"I had to have the skin regrown a few times times," Remus said quietly, still examining the back of his hand. "Before the Potion. I used to chew my hands almost to pieces. You remember."

Jolted from his reverie, Sirius nodded. "I remember." If he closed his eyes now he knew that he would see Remus's torn, bloodied hands. They'd been an all too frequent element of his waking nightmares in Azkaban.

"That's why they're relatively smooth."

"Pretty," Sirius insisted stubbornly.

" _Girls_ have pretty hands." Then Remus tipped his head slightly and his smile came back. "We used to argue about this. Remember?"

"No," said Sirius.

"We did. It was in the beginning. Pretty hands, pretty eyes. It was the _pretty_ I didn't like. That's a word you'd use for a girl. You only did it when you were drunk, but it got me angry anyway."

"I don't remember," Sirius said, and felt a ripple of panic in his belly. He looked at his own hands, his rough, thin hands, twigs held together by a film of skin. He held Remus's words in his mind and poked at them, prodded them, turned them over and over in search of the memory behind them, but the memory wasn't there.

Dimly, he heard the clatter of a teacup being set down, and the scrape of chair legs against linoleum. Then there was a hand on his shoulder – _one of Remus's pretty hands_ , he thought – and then Remus was saying calmly, "You're exhausted. That's why you can't remember. Come lie down."

*

 

Sirius resisted. He wasn't _that_ knackered, the memory was _there_ _some_ where and he'd find it if Remus just left him _alone_. But at some point he must have lost the struggle, or given up, because when next he was aware of his surroundings he was in Remus's bed.

He had no memory of leaving the kitchen, did not know if he had done it on his feet, by magic, or in Remus's arms. He did not remember dreaming. Some hours had clearly passed, though; the light coming through the bedroom window was different, a grainy gray that reminded him of those old Muggle movies Remus used to drag him to.

Sirius turned his head the pillow and frowned. The air, pillow, the sheets – everything smelled of Remus. _Thud,_ went Sirius's heart. He struggled to rise but he only managed to get himself propped up on his elbows. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and after a moment he fell back against the pillows, weak and dizzy.

Somewhere beyond his vision Remus said, "You were asleep for a little more than three hours. In case you're curious. If you'd like to, you can sleep for the rest of the day."

"I came here to bother you," Sirius reminded him. Eyes closed, he envisioned Remus's shrug.

"I can always find something to do."

"You always could," muttered Sirius, remembering. "You never got bored, ever."

"No," said Remus quietly. "You did."

There was nothing in his voice, no bitterness, no chagrin. Sirius's heart thudded again, like a footfall in an empty room. He licked his lips.

"I never got bored with you," he said at length. "I got frustrated. We never talked. And then I thought—"

They'd been over this before, in letters, all last summer and into the autumn. The seeds of doubt that Wormtail had sown, the things that had gone unsaid, the coincidences, the assumptions. There was no need to go over it again. Sirius opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Remus.

He sat in a chair beside the bed, a patched and faded brown cloak drawn about his shoulders, his thin, smooth hands resting on his knees. His fingers didn't look like driftwood, Sirius decided. They looked like blades of autumn grass – in that cold, watery light, at least. Long, so pale as to be nearly translucent, delicate. Sirius wanted to breathe summer warmth against them but he hadn't any to give.

"I'm knackered," he said quickly, because he suspected he might say something stupidly maudlin again.

"I'll let you sleep, then." Remus rose stiffly, as though he had not moved in quite some time. Sirius watched the flash of his fingers against his dark robe and for a third time in just a very few minutes his heart thudded against his ribcage.

"Stay."

If Remus had made even the smallest sound as he walked to the door he would not have heard Sirius's croak. But he did hear it, and he paused in the doorway, and turned.

"I'll only be in the other room." Then, gently, "You don't need me to watch you sleep."

 _But I do,_ Sirius thought. _If I go to sleep with you nearby I'll go to sleep knowing I'm not back in Azkaban, and I won't dream about it. But if you're not here, I might._

"Sleep," said Remus. "When was the last time you slept in a bed? Not that mine is all that comfortable," he added without pausing for an answer. "Maybe we'll do something later. It's raining now, but it might stop in a few hours. The beach is only three miles from here, and there's a bus that stops in the town. I've seen people take their dogs on the bus. I can Transfigure something into a leash and collar. There's the cinema, too. It only has two screens, but – it's something to do. There's takeaway. Pizza, I think, and possibly curry. Or I can get sandwiches for us at the Tesco's. I'm afraid I'm still not much of a cook…"

Sirius's mind reeled. Pizza, curry, sandwiches, buses, the cinema, the beach – Remus was offering too much. In Azkaban, there'd been a thin, greenish sort of gruel that the Dementors had slid into his cell twice a day, and that had been all. Outside his barred window there'd been a narrow strip of pebbly shore, and beyond that the North Sea. The waves had been black at night, smoky grey during the day, and they'd slashed at the land like shards of broken glass. Summer had brought seagulls, screaming just like Azkaban's mad inmates, and in winter there'd been no sounds but the whispers of the Dementors' tattered shrouds and the rattling of Sirius's own bones as he shivered.

Those had been his only sights, sounds, and tastes for twelve years. He didn't want to tell Remus, but the words _pizza_ and _curry_ had no meaning for him anymore. _Cinema_ meant nothing. He knew what it was, of course, but the interest slipped away from him.

"Or we don't have to do anything," Remus said, sounding slightly worried. "It's all right. It's good just having you here." He smiled limply; Sirius could just see the curve of his lips in the wan light.

"Stay," Sirius said again, and this time it sounded more like a command.

"I shouldn't." More quietly now, and not worried - _fearful._

With a grunt, Sirius bent his elbow again and pushed himself up. He glared at Remus. "Any particular reason why not?"

Remus wrapped his long fingers around the doorknob and said nothing.

"I see," said Sirius, and wondered when his insides had been scraped out; he felt completely hollow. Remus looked _old_ , and not beautiful. He'd never been beautiful, Sirius thought vindictively, and he'd always looked _older_ than most men his age, but now he looked _old._ "I see."

"Do you?" A murmur.

"Yes. You're afraid that if you stay here in this room you might start to pity me, and I admit I'm pretty fucking pathetic right now. But I don't want your pity, so maybe you'd better go." He felt the words like razors in his throat and he saw them strike Remus. The emptiness in him twisted with a mean sort of a pleasure; it felt good to watch someone else be hurt.

And then abruptly it stopped feeling good. Color rose in Remus's cheeks and he released the doorknob. He took a violent step forward, stopped, then took another. He loomed over Sirius, a tall, stern old man, and his fingers looked nothing like autumn grass or driftwood; they looked like what they were, nothing more, nothing less, as they curled at his sides.

"You're daft. Sirius Altair Black, I do not pity you. I have never in my life pitied _you_."

Sirius pushed himself up a little farther and started to speak, but Remus cut him off.

"I wanted to, once. When we were sixteen and you sent Snape to the Shack. I knew why you'd done it and I tried to pity you because I couldn't hate you, and anyway, pity seemed worse to me than hatred."

He sighed softly and as he did the patter of rain on the roof and windowsill came to Sirius finally.

"I never pitied you. I never hated you, even after the Potters died. I tried to make myself, but it didn't work and eventually I resigned myself to the fact that I'd always be a little bit in love with a murderer and a traitor. I pitied myself a little, then." His fingers uncurled. His gaze moved away from Sirius's, to the window. "On second thought," he said, as though speaking to himself, "maybe it won't stop raining today."

"You're still in love with me," said Sirius harshly. "A little bit, anyway. _That_ is fucking pathetic. _We_ are fucking pathetic. It's been more than twelve _years_."

"Exactly," said Remus, "why it would be a bad idea for me to get into bed with you right now. _That's_ what I'm afraid would happen if I were to stay."

Without another glance at Sirius, he turned and walked quickly out of the bedroom.

 _Thud_. This time it felt just like a door slamming shut inside him. Sirius recoiled and almost fell back against the pillows. In his mouth there was suddenly a sharp, metallic aftertaste, as if he'd been sucking on rusted iron.

Unbidden, his mind went reeling back across the years to the last time Remus had walked out on him. It hadn't been like this. They hadn't argued; they'd simply stopped speaking and one evening Sirius had come back from Diagon Alley to find Remus gone from their flat, and all of Remus's things gone, too. He hadn't had much; all of the furniture and most of the kitchen things had belonged to Sirius. It had taken some wandering through the flat, some poking through drawers and closets to discover that Remus had really _left_ him, and didn't intend to come back.

It hadn't sunk in until he'd reached the bathroom and found only one toothbrush in the plastic cup by the sink. On _that_ his mind had locked, and he still did not know how long he'd stood staring at it before James had come to lead him away.

There was no longer any James to come and save him; he'd seen to that. So he stared at the open doorway and only became aware of the passage of time when his arm began to ache with the effort of holding him up.

Sirius blinked out of his stupor. Last time, Remus had left him with no options. Now there was nothing preventing Sirius from getting up and following, and maybe stopping him from leaving, so that was what he did.

Remus had cleaned his robes, Sirius noticed, as he rolled awkwardly out of bed. He'd also taken off his shoes and socks. Sirius didn't see them anywhere, so he went barefoot.

Remus, he discovered, had only gone as far as the kitchen. He sat at the table with his head in his hands, his messy, graying hair spilling over his fingers, the books that Sirius had brought for him by his elbow.

"Reckon I'm bothering you now," Sirius said. When Remus did not reply, he added, "I thought you might have left. I'm glad you didn't."

Remus did not look up. "It's raining. Where would I have gone?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. The cinema. A pub. Or you might just have stood around in the rain and caught a cold just to spite me. Now, if it'd been me, I'd've taken the bike out and flown really fast. Or I might have gone down to Knockturn Alley to pick a fight with some dodgy character. There's at least a dozen things I could have done to make us both miserable. You might say I had a talent for it." He stood very still as Remus lifted his head and turned to look at him.

"You're not funny."

Sirius shrugged. "Found your present, I see."

"They found me," Remus said. "While you were asleep I went looking for a glass and they fell on me."

"Sorry," Sirius said.

Remus ran his index finger along the spine of the thicker of the two books. "Library books. You stole them?"

"Couldn't just walk up to the counter at Flourish and Blotts, could I?"

" _Library_ books?"

"You always liked libraries," said Sirius. At Remus's blank expression he added defensively, "They smell like a library. I thought you'd like that."

Remus was sitting a little too stiffly, and Sirius suspected he was struggling to keep his expression neutral. He couldn't maintain it, though. His lips quirked – if Sirius had blinked he'd have missed it.

"Two stolen library books," Sirius said lightly. "I've done worse. _You've_ done worse."

"Don't," Remus warned. "Don't try to be…charming."

"We are what we are." Emboldened by that quirk, Sirius took a step toward the table. When Remus did not protest, he took another. He reached for the thicker book, opened it, and began to leaf through the pages. He found the one he'd marked earlier, found the passage he wanted, and read,

" _And I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?_ "

"Sirius, it's not going to work."

He ignored the sting. "You've got lines. This, right here. You say—"

" _Sirius._ "

He slammed the book shut, jostling the table and causing Remus to flinch. " _What?_ " he demanded, angry, weary, and confused. "What _don't_ you want me to do? What are you afraid of?" His mouth twisted. "What do you suppose will happen? There's no bed in here."

Remus grabbed his wrist and squeezed it painfully hard. For a moment his gaze locked with Sirius's, dark and challenging. Then he kicked his chair back, pulled himself up and yanked Sirius to him. Remus's lips were on his before he'd had a chance to process a single thought.

They didn't need a bed, it turned out. One hand fisted between Sirius's shoulder blades, the other wrapped around his cock, Remus had him against the kitchen door. Remus wasn't gentle and later Sirius was grateful for that; after all those grating solitary years, gentleness would have shattered him.

*

" _For them all together._ "

"What?"

"For them all together," repeated Remus. He pushed the tangled, sweaty hair away from Sirius's neck and began to kiss him. "That was my line. The beginning of it, anyway. I don't remember the rest. I fell in love with you for all your bad parts together. Then I think I'm supposed to ask you for which of my good parts did you first fall in love with me?" Sirius couldn't see his face, but he sounded rueful. "I don't think I've ever had very many good parts."

They lay where they had fallen on the scratched and dirty linoleum, Sirius on his side with one arm tucked under him and his face turned toward the window, Remus curled over him, his knee between Sirius's legs. The cold of the floor and air bit into Sirius's sensitized skin. He was aware of a dull throb, but he seemed detached from it, like it belonged to a body he was only borrowing.

Remus was apologizing as he kissed him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to be so rough. That's not how I thought it would be." Sirius felt Remus's fingers in his hair, combing it smooth over the linoleum.

"I'm not made of _glass_ , you twat. I could've stopped you if I'd wanted." He didn't care if it was true or not. He stared at the window, which was being lashed by the fierce gray rain. It wouldn't stop, he thought. Not anytime soon.

"I suppose…" Remus trailed off. He planted another kiss on the nape of Sirius's neck, then wrapped his arms around his chest and slid up close against him. He laid a palm over Sirius's heart. "I don't know," he said at length. "You said we are what we are. But we're not what we were."

"That we're not. To be honest, I don't think I like who we were. Me, anyway. You were all right. Except when you were clamming up and not telling anyone anything. And then leaving."

"I wanted you to come after me. It just about killed me when you didn't."

"I _would_ have, if I'd known where you'd buggered off to. Can you imagine – what it might have been like if you'd told _James_ , and not—"

"Don't." Remus's fingertips stroked his chest. "There's no point in it. I've been thinking about us – a lot – since you sent me that first letter in July. I hadn't let myself think about us for years. Then suddenly you were in all my thoughts. I couldn't open a newspaper or boil water without seeing your face. Sometimes you looked the way you had in the Shack, other times the way you looked when we were students. Mostly you looked the way you did right before I left, right before James and Lily died."

He paused, but Sirius said nothing.

"We can't go back," Remus said.

"I wouldn't know how," Sirius muttered.

"I wouldn't, either. Listen, though. I'm thirty-five, as you were thoughtful enough to remind me this morning. I think I'm old enough by now to know what I want. When I first had you I didn't know anything. I thought, _This is pretty great some of the time, but I wonder what else there is._ I loved you, but I wasn't always happy. The war mucked up everything. I thought – I thought entirely too much. Then I lost you. I went everywhere. I did everything I could. I went into all these dark places with my memories of you, and I tried to leave them there. They just stuck to me like burrs." His breath scurried over Sirius's shoulder.

"It's been more than thirteen years since we last made a mess of things, Sirius. It's been thirteen lifetimes. For both of us. I'm thirty-five and that's old enough. I know what I want. If you still want me—" He faltered; he really did think he'd hurt him, Sirius realized.

He turned his head so he could see Remus. "I came, didn't I?" There was a double meaning in his question and when he realized it his lips bent into their first smile since the morning. "I walked all night for you. I stole library books and made you tea. I remembered your fucking birthday. I even let you have your wicked way with me. Of course I still want you. Idiot."

Remus's fingertips traced his smile. His fingers were as warm as driftwood and light as autumn grass; what they looked like wasn't important. Remus studied Sirius's smile for what seemed like a long time. Then, slowly, he began to smile too, and when he did, he stopped looking so old, and he stopped looking like he'd never been beautiful.

"Pretty hands," teased Sirius.

"Shut up," Remus whispered.

"No." Sirius got his arm out from under him and raised his hand to cup Remus's cheek. There was beauty in the graceful slope of his nose, in the shallow curve of his lips. It was there and had always been there. Remus's skin was smooth and silvery in the rainlight, his eyes the richest, darkest brown that Sirius had ever seen.

Sirius slid his fingers into Remus's hair and guided his face down until their lips touched. This kiss, which was only their second in more than thirteen years, was much gentler than their first, and lasted far longer.

*

Later, when they were in bed together, naked, and listening to the patter of rain, Sirius thought, _We're not that old, neither of us._ Remus laughed when he said that aloud, kissed his mouth, and hugged him fiercely.

"No, we're not. But we're not that young anymore, either."

"Maybe that's a good thing," said Sirius.

"Maybe it is." Remus kissed him again. "What's important is that we've finally learned from our mistakes, and that we've got time."

07/07/05


End file.
